the sublime we should be cautious in cultivating. Obscurity and
terror are two of the grand sources of the sublime; analyze the
feeling, examine accurately the object which creates the emotion, and
you dissipate the illusion, you annihilate the pleasure.

"What seemed its head, the likeness of a kingly crown had on."

The indistinctness of the head and of the kingly crown, makes this a
sublime image. Upon the same principle,

always must appear sublime as long as the passion of fear operates.
Would it not, however, be imprudent in education to permit that early
propensity to superstitious terrors, and that temporary suspension of
the reasoning faculties, which are often essential to our taste for
the sublime? When we hear of "Margaret's grimly ghost," or of the
"dead still hour of night," a sort of awful tremor seizes us, partly
from the effect of early associations, and partly from the solemn tone
of the reader. The early associations which we perhaps have formed of
terror, with the ideas of apparitions, and winding sheets, and sable
shrouds, should be unknown to children. The silent solemn hour of
midnight, should not to them be an hour of terror. In the following
poetic description of the beldam telling dreadful stories to her
infant audience, we hear only of the pleasures of the imagination; we
do not recollect how dearly these pleasures must be purchased by their
votaries:

"* * * * * * finally by night
The village matron, round the blazing hearth,
Suspends the infant audience with her tales,
Breathing astonishment! of witching rhymes,
And evil spirits; of the death-bed call
Of him who robbed the widow, and devour'd
The orphan's portion; of the unquiet souls
Ris'n from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life concealed; of shapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave
The torch of hell around the murd'rer's bed.
At every solemn pause the crowd recoil,
Gazing each other speechless, and congeal'd
With shiv'ring sighs; till, eager for th' event,
Around the beldam all erect they hang,
Each trembling heart with grateful terrors quell'd."[65]

No prudent mother will ever imitate this eloquent village matron, nor
will she permit any beldam in the nursery to conjure up these sublime
shapes, and to quell the hearts of her children with these grateful
terrors. We were once present when a group of speechless children sat
listening to the story of Blue-beard, "breathing astonishment." A
gentleman who saw the charm beginning to operate, resolved to
counteract its dangerous influence. Just at the critical moment, when
the fatal key drops from the trembling hands of the imprudent wife,
the gentleman interrupted the awful pause of silence that ensued, and
requested permission to relate the remainder of the story.
Tragi-comedy does not offend the taste of young, so much as of old
critics; the transition from grave to gay was happily managed.
Blue-beard's wife afforded much diversion, and lost all sympathy the
moment she was represented as a curious, tattling, timid, ridiculous
woman. The terrors of Blue-beard himself subsided when he was properly
introduced to the company; and the denouement of the piece was managed
much to the entertainment of the audience; the catastrophe, instead of
freezing their young blood, produced general laughter. Ludicrous
images, thus presented to the mind which has been prepared for horror,
have an instantaneous effect upon the risible muscles: it seems better
to use these means of counteracting the terrors of the imagination,
than to reason upon the subject whilst the fit is on; reason should be
used between the fits.[66] Those who study the minds of children know
the nice touches which affect their imagination, and they can, by a
few words, change their feelings by the power of association.

Ferdinand Duke of Tuscany was once struck with the picture of a child
crying: the painter,[67] who was at work upon the head, wished to give
the duke a proof of his skill: by a few judicious strokes, he
converted the crying into a laughing face. The duke, when he looked at
the child again, was in astonishment: the painter, to show himself
master of the human countenance, restored his first touches; and the
duke, in a few moments, saw the child weeping again. A preceptor may
acquire similar power over the countenance of his pupil if he has
studied the oratorical art. By the art of oratory, we do not mean the
art of misrepresentation, the art of deception; we mean the art of
showing the truth in the strongest light; of exciting virtuous
enthusiasm and generous indignation. Warm, glowing eloquence, is not
inconsistent with accuracy of reasoning and judgment. When we have
expressed our admiration or abhorrence of any action or character, we
should afterwards be ready coolly to explain to our pupils the justice
of our sentiments: by this due mixture and alternation of eloquence
and reasoning, we may cultivate a taste for the moral and sublime, and
yet preserve the character from any tincture of extravagant
enthusiasm. We cannot expect, that the torrent of passion should never
sweep away the land-marks of exact morality; but after its overflowing
impetuosity abates, we should take a calm survey of its effects, and
we should be able to ascertain the boundaries of right and wrong with
geometrical precision.

There is a style of bombast morality affected by some authors, which
must be hurtful to young readers. Generosity and honour, courage and
sentiment, are the striking qualities which seize and enchant the
imagination in romance: these qualities must be joined with justice,
prudence, economy, patience, and many humble virtues, to make a
character really estimable; but these would spoil the effect, perhaps,
of dramatic exhibitions.

Children may with much greater safety see hideous, than gigantic
representations of the passions. Richard the Third excites abhorrence;
but young Charles de Moor, in "The Robbers," commands our sympathy;
even the enormity of his guilt, exempts him from all ordinary modes of
trial; we forget the murderer, and see something like a hero. It is
curious to observe, that the legislature in Germany, and in England,
have found it necessary to interfere as to the representation of
Captain Mac Heath and the Robbers; two characters in which the tragic
and the comic muse have had powerful effects in exciting imitation.
George Barnwell is a hideous representation of the passions, and
therefore beneficial.

There are many sublime objects which do not depend upon terror, or at
least upon false associations of terror, for their effect; and there
are many sublime thoughts, which have no connection with violent
passions or false ideas of morality. These are what we should select,
if possible, to raise, without inflating, the imagination. The view of
the ocean, of the setting or the rising sun, the great and bold scenes
of nature, affects the mind with sublime pleasure. All the objects
which suggest ideas of vast space, or power, of the infinite duration
of time, of the decay of the monuments of ancient grandeur, or of the
master-pieces of human art and industry, have power to raise sublime
sensations: but we should consider, that they raise this pleasure only
by suggesting certain ideas; those who have not the previous ideas,
will not feel the pleasure. We should not, therefore, expect that
children should admire objects which do not excite any ideas in their
minds; we should wait till they have acquired the necessary knowledge,
and we should not injudiciously familiarize them with these objects.

Simplicity is a source of the sublime, peculiarly suited to children;
accuracy of observation and distinctness of perception, are essential
to this species of the sublime. In Percy's collection of ancient
ballads, and in the modern poems of the Ayreshire ploughman, we may
see many instances of the effect of simplicity. To preserve our
pupil's taste from a false love of ornament, he must avoid, either in
books or in conversation, all verbose and turgid descriptions, the use
of words and epithets which only fill up the measure of a line.

When a child sees any new object, or feels any new sensation, we
should assist him with appropriate words to express his thoughts and
feelings: when the impression is fresh in his mind, the association,
with the precise descriptive epithets, can be made with most
certainty. As soon as a child has acquired a sufficient stock of words
and ideas, he should be from time to time exercised in description;
we should encourage him to give an exact account of his own feelings
in his own words. Those parents who have been used to elegant, will
not, perhaps, be satisfied with the plain, descriptions of unpractised
pupils; but they should not be fastidious; they should rather be
content with an epithet too little, than with an epithet too much; and
they should compare the child's description with the objects actually
described, and not with the poems of Thomson or Gray, or Milton or
Shakespeare. If we excite our pupils to copy from the writings of
others, they never can have any originality of thought. To show
parents what sort of simple descriptions they may reasonably expect
from children, we venture to produce the following extempore
description of a summer's evening, given by three children of
different ages.

July 12th, 1796. Mr. ---- was walking out with his family, and he
asked his children to describe the evening just as it appeared to
them. "There were three bards in Ossian's poems," said he, "who were
sent out to see what sort of a night it was; they all gave different
descriptions upon their return; you have never any of you read